Leprechaun

The knock was a hammer on a shoe, small and sure. A leprechaun sat in the Irish dark, hat low, a coin that would not stay where it was put, clover crushed under one heel. People who chased the shine came back with empty hands and a leprechaun gift of almost. It shows again in leprechaun playing cards that hide the gold face, in a leprechaun notebook with a tally that will not add, in a leprechaun postcard of the hat and the closed fist. The lane goes quiet. The coin does not stay still.